


The Samhain Feast

by deansmultitudes, Kitmistry



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Animal Sacrifice, First Meetings, M/M, Rituals, Samhain, Witch Dean Winchester, Witch's Familiar Castiel (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:48:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27315073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deansmultitudes/pseuds/deansmultitudes, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitmistry/pseuds/Kitmistry
Summary: The end of the harvest. The one day the veil between our world and the otherworld is thinnest. The day when a witch coming of age can try summoning and binding a familiar. The Samhain Feast is a tradition so ancient, no one remembers how it started. Dean has attended every single one of them since he was old enough to walk, watching witches meeting their familiars and bonding with them.This year, it's his turn to make an offering. And hope one of the familiars chooses him.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 34
Kudos: 191
Collections: Promptus Exchangarama





	The Samhain Feast

As the crimson hues of the sunset give way to the dark velvet of the night the pyres become brighter, almost dazzling. Dean can’t remember if they were like this last year, too. Maybe it’s because this year it’s his turn to take part in the Samhain Feast that everything seems more magical, more vivid than ever before. Even the camp seems larger this year, and there are definitely more witches attending.

His stomach twists uncomfortably at that. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t be thinking of the other witches as competition, but he, Sam, and Bobby have barely set up their camp and he’s already in a downward spiral of worries. 

What if he’s not good enough, what if he’s not strong enough, what if no one answers his summoning?

Somebody slaps the back of his head. 

“Stop overthinking this and come help me unload our cart, idjit,” Bobby growls.

At least keeping busy means he doesn’t have the time to think about worst-case scenarios. It also means that by the time he wipes the sweat off his forehead and accepts the flask Sam holds out for him, there are only a couple of hours left until midnight. Preparations for the feast are well underway all around them when Bobby finally allows them to wander through the camp. 

“Excited?” Sam asks, falling into step with him, hands loosely held behind his back.

“Maybe.” If excited means he’s about to puke, then yes, Dean’s excited.

“Oh, come on, Dean. You’ve been waiting for the day you turn twenty one your whole life!” Sam says, eyes bright under his too-long hair. “You’ll finally get a familiar.”

“You know that not every witch gets a familiar,” Dean says, more to himself than to Sam. 

_And that’s okay,_ he adds mentally.

Even if he really, _really_ wants a familiar. 

The camp is set up in the middle of the forest, in a clearing large enough to fit all the witches arriving from every corner of the earth to celebrate the end of the harvest, the one day the veil between their world and the otherworld is thinnest. The day when a witch coming of age can try summoning and binding a familiar. Easier said than done.

Dean sighs, taking a turn that will take them deeper into the camp. The layout is familiar. The main pyre is located in the middle of the camp, with alternating rings of tents and pyres surrounding it, stretching out to the edge of the clearing, where weathered trees rise up as if reaching for the stars. The closer to the center they go, the more vendor stalls they find set up among the tents, most of them selling fruits and dried vegetables in preparation for the feast or magical ingredients. 

They stop at a few, admiring the collection of exotic stuff they can’t find in their local shops, and Sam turns on his puppy eyes until Dean caves and buys him a book on crystals and their magic properties—the kid is a certified nerd!

They turn to move to the next stall when a small hand closes around Dean’s wrist and stops him.

“Blessed Samhain, young witch,” a woman with dark hair and a cloth around her eyes says, squeezing his wrist. “Do you want your fortune read?”

She gestures at her stall, covered in voodoo dolls and candles, a deck of tarot cards sitting in the center. The sign reads _Pamela’s Box_ in gold loopy letters. 

A sense of foreboding settles heavily over Dean as he stares first at it then back at the blind witch.

“No, thank you,” he says. A beat. He clears his throat. “I’m good.”

“Oh come on,” she insists, her grin wide and toothy. “I know you’re dying to know. About your familiar I mean.”

Now Dean can’t help but scoff. “Lady—”

“Pamela,” she corrects him.

“Pamela. I don’t have a familiar.”

“Not yet,” she agrees. “But you will. The spirits are watching you, Dean.”

It’s unsettling that she knows his name, but that doesn’t mean that she knows what she’s talking about. Reading someone’s aura is easy. Communicating with the otherworld on the other hand is a rare ability, almost unheard of. 

“Yeah, thanks but no thanks,” Dean says, ignoring the chill that goes down his spine at her widening smile. “I’m not interested.”

He grabs Sam by the elbow and starts walking away, chest squeezing around his lungs.

“But aren’t you curious about the familiar interested in you?” Pamela calls. 

Dean almost laughs. There’s no way a familiar could be interested in him before he’s even made his offering. Even then, it’s a big _if_ whether or not one answers him. And that’s without thinking about the fact that Dean has to bind it. All by himself. Using his weak ass magic. 

“You hesitate,” Pamela says, her voice honey-sweet and kind. “You don’t trust me. That’s okay. I’m used to it. But give me a chance. I’ll read your palm for free if you want, and you can choose to purchase one of my other services after.”

Dean dares a peek at her over his shoulder. There’s a list of various fortune-telling services listed above her head, from tarot reading to coffee reading. Still, he’s not convinced.

Sam elbows him in the stomach. “What’s the harm? She said she’ll do it for free.”

“Shut up, Sammy!”

“What if she’s the real deal?”

“Do you know how small the chances of that are?”

“But what if she is?” Sam insists. He glances in her direction, mouth opening and closing in quick succession. Finally, he swallows. “It’s at least worth a try.”

Dean deflates. He’s not a fan of this idea. Not a fan at all. 

But maybe Sam is right. And he is a little curious.

“Alright, fine,” he says, letting go of Sam to turn back to Pamela. “You can read my palm.”

She seems oddly pleased as she leads them back to her stall, where she takes her seat behind it with Dean standing on the other side. She motions for him to give her his hand.

He does, reluctantly. 

Belatedly, Dean realizes she’s _blind_. How is she supposed to read his palm, let alone tarot cards or coffee? Pamela, though, never hesitates. She takes his hand into hers, running her fingers over his skin, feather-light touches that raise goosebumps up his arms and follow the lines etched into his skin. 

“Interesting,” she says at last, mouth pursed. “I see a difficult road ahead of you, but there’s light at the end of the tunnel.”

Dean rolls his eyes. Here comes the generic crap. 

Pamela either doesn’t notice (can she even read his aura at the same time she’s reading his palm?) or doesn’t mind. She keeps tracing the lines on his palm with her fingertips, eyebrows rising above the cloth covering her eyes. “Huh. There’s power in your future. Power unlike anything I’ve seen before.”

Dean can’t help himself. He snickers.

Pamela frowns at him. “Making fun of the blind witch is not very nice.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he’s quick to say. “But you had to have _seen_ that coming.” And with that, he bursts out laughing for real. What can he say, he’s hilarious. 

Pamela taps a finger on her chin. “Maybe it’s a little funny. But let’s _see_ how you feel about _this.”_

“What?” Dean opens his mouth to say, but the word dies before it makes it past his lips.

Pamela reaches for something under her stall. Metal flashes under the light of the candles. With a swift motion, a sharp pain shoots up Dean’s arm, and blood blossoms from the cut on his palm.

He jerks back, holding the injured hand close to his chest. “What the hell, lady?”

“Don’t be a baby now,” she tells him, busy using his blood on her blade to draw a sigil on the table. 

Dean starts to protest, but she’s already whispering a spell under her breath, the words too muffled, too fast for him to understand. She throws a dark powder over the sigil that crackles and sparks, and black smoke rises to curl around her.

Pamela takes a deep breath, inhales the smoke, and throws her head back. 

For a moment nothing happens. 

Then she starts shaking, whole-body tremors that rattle her stall. The flames of the candles suddenly become high columns of fire, illuminating her with an ethereal glow and making several people stop and stare.

And then it stops.

The flames go out.

Pamela slumps against her chair.

Dean swallows past his dry throat, wishing he’d heard his instincts.

She turns to face them again. 

“Fascinating,” she says as if she wasn’t in the middle of a trance just moments ago. “Interesting indeed. Well, Dean, listen carefully to what I have to tell you now.”

Dean doesn’t dare step closer. 

Sam looks equally as terrified. “Tell him what?” he asks.

“Castiel,” Pamela says and nods her head satisfied.

“Castiel,” Dean repeats, tasting the word against his lips. “What does it mean?”

“He has blue eyes,” Pamela says instead of a proper answer, running her fingers through her black hair. “Now hurry along. The Feast is about to start.”

“Castiel is a _he_?” Dean asks as a swarm of people swallow him up in their haste to reach the main pyre. By the time they’ve passed him by, Pamela’s stall is gone and so is she.

A shiver goes down Dean’s spine. Not the best of omens to start his Samhain Feast.

Bobby chooses that moment to appear through the crowd and shove a basket in his arms. “Go on now. It’s almost time to make your offering.”

“But I—” 

Dean glances at the empty space where _Pamela’s Box_ stood just seconds ago. He’s not sure what to make of the blind witch or her prophecy (was that really a prophecy, though?) but it’s not like he has the time to ponder over it. Bobby is already shoving him towards the main pyre, and for good reason. There are too many young witches gathered this year, and the spaces around the pyre are quickly being filled.

Nerves thrumming with anticipation, Dean runs to secure his place just as the sound of drums accompanies the beginning of the ceremony. He’s rehearsed this part endlessly for the last year or so, but his fingers feel sweaty, the words clumsy as he chants the summoning along with everyone else. Did he kneel in front of the fire too fast? Or was the girl next to him too slow? Is his offering enough? 

Others have gone all out. He can see from the corner of his eye fruits that he doesn’t recognize; red meat still vibrant and bloody; someone even pushes a live bird in a cage towards the flame. Dean winces when the flames swallow it up and it screams. He tries not to think about it as he pushes his basket and lets it be consumed by the fire, too. His is not full like those of the other witches, and it doesn’t contain anything of value. It’s just vegetables and fruits from Bobby’s garden, and black cat bones for the sacrifice part—not even a real sacrifice. The cat had belonged to Bobby years ago and died of old age. Dean just dug up her bones. 

Shame slashes hot and sharp through his gut, and the heat of the fire a couple of feet away is only part of the reason for the blush crawling up his face. This whole thing seems ridiculous all of a sudden. Dean has average magic, less than average offerings. Compared to everyone else attending, he has nothing. If anyone on the other side is keeping a list of the witch candidates, then surely Dean’s name is on the very bottom. This is a waste of time. A waste of Bobby’s money to make the trip out here in the first place.

As if to underline that though, the main pyre flares higher for a split second, and then a dove flies out of it. 

The witches hold their breaths. 

The dove flies in a circle around the fire before soaring lower. It lands in front of a red-haired girl, beak lowered, neck feathers fluffed, and it waits. 

The girl doesn’t lose any time. Silver chain in hand, she fires her first spell, which the dove easily dodges. Familiars are notoriously hard to bind, and this one is clearly intent to live up to the hype.

Dean doesn’t see what the red-haired witch does next. He’s too busy watching as more familiars rise from the flames. Birds and cats. Dogs and lizards. There’s a monkey among them. All of them spring out of the fire to face one of the witches waiting around the pyre. Soon, spells are flying all over the place, witches and familiars sizing each other up, the former trying to prove themselves worthy and the latter trying to judge the potential of their prospective witch. 

It’s only a matter of time before a witch manages to bind a familiar, the silver chain secured around a dog’s neck. The dog bows in respect before transforming to his human form to greet the witch properly. They walk away from the circle together under the jealous gazes of several witches still waiting for a familiar to answer their call, Dean among them.

Well.

It’s not like he expected any different. He was a fool for hoping in the first place. It was nice while his dream lasted, but now it’s time to suck it up and go back to his real life. He’s just not good enough. Less and less familiars appear now, and there are several witches left still waiting. What are the odds one will come for Dean? Pretty damn close to zero, if he’s being honest.

A bitter thought occurs to him then: So much for Pamela’s certainty that the spirits were watching him or whatever it is she told him. What was it again? Castiel? Well, she and that Castiel, whoever he is, were most certainly a fraud. Dean shouldn’t be surprised.

With a thundering _whoosh_ that slashes right through Dean’s thoughts, the main pyre flares, an unstoppable blaze that curls up towards the sky in an explosion of light and heat. 

Dean instinctively lifts his hand to protect his eyes. This is not supposed to be happening. Breath caught at his throat, he dares a peek behind his fingers. 

There’s a dark figure emerging through the flames, lithe body moving at complete ease inside the heart of the fire. The black, velvety shadow stands out against the orange glow of the pyre, as do the bright blue eyes that are fixed on Dean and Dean alone. 

The panther jumps on the ground, graceful and silent, and Dean stops breathing.

Is this…

“Castiel?” he breathes out, and the huge cat roars in response. Something like a shiver traces its fingertips up Dean’s spine. This is his familiar. He knows it. Can feel it deep in his bones. 

Now he just has to bind it. 

At least he isn’t one of the flying types. Those are much more difficult to bind, even with Dean’s impeccable aim. But Castiel doesn’t even move. He just stands there, in front of Dean, his teeth bared to intimidate, eyes watchful of Dean’s every breath.

There’s no time to hesitate or doubt himself now. Dean’s got a gamut of spells at his disposal and he’s trained them back and forth over the last year. Whether those, when cast by his hand, are anywhere near strong enough to bind a familiar this big, this emanating with power, Dean’s about to find out.

He lifts his right hand towards Castiel, palm up. The words of the ancient language roll off his tongue with practiced ease, each building up the magical charge beneath his skin. As the last syllable resounds, the power is released in a ribbon of light, dimmed green reminiscent of the trail of cut grass in the spring. It twirls in the air between him and Castiel in quick, serpentine movements, reaching towards the panther’s chest.

It’s not going for a bite. It’s meant to graze along Castiel’s sternum and slither through the space between his ribs. Once the spell is wrapped around Castiel’s heart, the connection will be opened between the two of them and Dean will be able to build the bond from there.

None of that happens, though. As the light nears him, Castiel gives out another roar—Dean could swear it’s annoyed rather than angry, but he’s not going to risk it—and ducks, laying his tummy on the ground. The spell brushes the fur along his spine and withers into nothing.

Dean bites down a cuss. He never expected it to be this easy, did he? He was prepared for this. He’s got the crackling of another spell in his fingertips, ready to fire, fast as an arrow. Castiel won’t dodge it this time.

But before he gets to cast it, the panther pulls back to his hind legs and springs a few feet into the air. His massive body arches over Dean’s head like it’s no effort at all, then lands behind Dean’s back.

Astonished gasps rise from the crowd. Dean’s mouth falls agape but he can’t even force out a sound. This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening. This doesn’t happen. Not to good, strong witches. Once a familiar chooses a witch, they either get bound, or, should the witch fail, they return to their world through the pyre.

They don’t flee. Dean didn’t even get the proper chance to bond with him. All around the fire, the spells are still being cast, time after time, trial and error and trial. Why did Dean only get one shot?

Why did he fail?

Dean twists around just in time to see the crowd part before the panther’s roar, letting him through and into the open path.

As a few chuckles break out from the crowd, a hot wave washes over Dean’s body. He should have never even come here. Now he’s gonna be on tongues of everyone, a funny story to tell for all years to come. A cautionary tale for young witches when they’re not too keen on practicing their spells.

And what about Pamela’s words, her certainty that he and Castiel are destined for each other or whatever? Was that a lie or did Castiel change his mind and deemed Dean unworthy?

Dean turns his face back to the flames, wishing the fire would encase him and swallow him whole, just so he doesn’t have to keep kneeling here, humiliated, all eyes on him.

The ritual hasn’t stopped. The familiars are still coming through one by one, choosing their partner to be bonded with for life. The circle around the pyre keeps thinning as the witches leave with their new familiars and go back to their tents to get to know each other and to prepare for the festivities.

Maybe there’s still a chance another familiar would come through and pick Dean. Maybe then, Dean would succeed.

Pamela’s words echo in Dean’s head. There’s power in your future.

Castiel.

There isn’t a sliver of proof she’s trustworthy at all. Her prophecy could have been a flux. Could have even been a set up, somehow, though Dean can’t imagine why anyone would go through the trouble of setting up a joke between two worlds just to make fun of someone as unimportant as him.

But then, there’s more. Something about Castiel that Dean felt the very moment their eyes met. Not destiny. Not a bond, yet.

A connection.

Castiel is Dean’s familiar. Dean’s not going to settle for anyone else.

Dean springs to his feet and leaves the circle. When the crowd doesn’t split up for him like it did for Castiel, Dean has to use his elbows. Some are trying to block his way with deliberation. Some are trying to talk him down, strangers’ voices telling him to get back to his knees and wait, to not be a baby about it.

There’s Bobby, too, calling him an idjit, but he’s too far away now to grab his arm and stop him from what might as well be the worst decision in Dean’s short life.

But Dean’s mind is set. Once he pushes past some broad-shouldered guy, there sprawls the night before him. The path that leads through the camp is empty—everyone is by the pyre, after all. Far, far ahead, something’s moving. A dark shadow, swift movements, getting smaller with each moment.

Dean runs.

There’s no chance he can catch up to a panther, he’s painfully aware of that. But he has to try. By the time he makes it halfway through the long, straight path that leads from the pyre, across the camp, into the forest, the dark shape ahead is gone.

A part of Dean hoped Castiel would wait. But he didn’t, he must have walked in. No wonder. From what little the familiars share about their world with people, forests as deep, dark and ancient as this are the closest thing to it.

It’s also very ancient, very dark, and very deep.

Not many people dare to wander into the forest on their own; Dean never has. It’s not that it’s anything other than benevolent. It’s the overwhelming vastness of it and the static buzz of the magic Dean can sense even before he sets his foot past the line of trees.

Have the noises from the pyre died down? Dean could swear he heard the shouts and laughter coming from it just a moment ago. Or maybe it’s just the distance that quieted it when Dean wasn’t paying attention.

Although Dean’s much older than the last time he walked in here with Bobby and a few of his friends, and much taller, too, the trees still stretch high above him and make him feel tiny again. Even with some of their colorful leaves now gone and cracking beneath Dean’s feet, the intertwined branches obscure completely the bright glow of the full moon.

Dean lifts his palm and conjures up light; a dozen of green orbs, hardly bigger than the head of a pin, but bright enough to light up the path. Spread out and constantly moving, from the distance they’re indistinguishable from fireflies. Innocuous enough as to not disturb the night life of the forest or alarm Castiel to his approach. That is, once Dean actually manages to locate him.

Threading through is a challenge: the tree trunks, older than Dean’s people, leave little space to meander between, the roots and bushes are relentless in their attempts to trip Dean. But even if he has to risk falling on his face, Dean presses on.

He walks until the muscles in his calves begin to ache. And then he keeps walking, still. How long has it been? He can’t even count on the stars to help him tell the time, perfectly obscured as they are. The ritual surely ended by now. His chances of finding another familiar are gone. Have the festivities afterwards begun yet? Or are they nearing their end?

Has Bobby gathered up a search party to come looking for him?

Without the fire to warm up the night, the October chill slips all the way down to Dean’s bones along with doubt. He wraps his jacket tighter around his torso to help the first problem, at least. He should have dressed warmer, though he couldn’t have known. In fact, he should be going back. This is hopeless. Castiel can be anywhere by now. The forest spreads over thousands of acres of land, and Dean doesn’t even have a trail.

“Come on, Castiel,” Dean mutters, but in this silence his voice sounds disturbingly loud. “Where on earth did you go?”

Yes, he should go back, though he’s really not eager to return defeated. How could he look anyone in the eye? How could he look Sammy in the eye if he didn’t do everything he can to find his familiar?

So he takes a few more steps forward, just in case. And then a few steps more.

One of his lights glides ahead, slipping out of his reach. Dean raises an eyebrow and pulls at the light to regain the control over it. This has never happened before. How can he be screwing the simplest magic trick; even toddlers know how to keep those in check. He takes a breath and focuses on the wayward light, but as he’s trying to force it to behave, the other lights slip his grip and scatter, spreading out in front of him and veering off to the left.

It’s a path.

Somehow, without his permission, his own magic seems to be guiding him. And so he follows.

As he walks, the lights keep shifting before him, extending the path. It takes a while, but it doesn’t feel hopeless anymore; the sense of purpose that pushed him forward at the start of this ridiculous adventure has returned to him. He’s gonna find Castiel, he’s certain of it.

The lights stop at the edge of a clearing and hover in the air, as if waiting for Dean to reach them. The space isn’t nearly as wide as the one where the camp is set up. It’s merely a few dozen feet across, with a big slab of stone in the middle of it. It’s flat on top. Like a table. Or an altar.

Was it man-made or is it one of the quirks of magical forests? Doesn’t really matter; what matters is what’s on top of it. A dark mound, shifting lightly in the darkness. Castiel.

Instead of entering the clearing, Dean slips behind a tree. He needs a plan, something that could use the element of surprise to his favor. His magic could reach Castiel from there, barely, but it should. Except it doesn’t feel right; sneaking up on his potential familiar, hitting him, sleeping, with the spell—it’s almost like an attack. Not a good way to begin a long-lasting relationship, or any relationship for that matter. Dean’s got more honor and decency than that, even if it means he’ll lose him.

Dean takes a step forward. As on a cue, the orbs shoot forward and circle Castiel and light up his form. They light up his face, his eyes watching Dean.

That’s when a thought occurs to Dean. “Are you controlling them?”

Castiel lowers his head then shakes it from side to side. If it's not Castiel then what? They couldn't have just gotten a life of their own. As much as they look like fireflies, they are not.

With a sigh, Castiel moves his eyes in what must be a panther equivalent of an eyeroll. He climbs to his hind legs, stretching his spine up and with a smooth motion transforms into a man. He looks to be around Dean’s age, though the familiar’s looks might be deceiving. His messy hair, in this light, is as black as his fur was. His clothes, elegant and festive, are also black but for the tan vest with darker markings along the hems.

He’s handsome; strong jawline covered with a shadow of a stubble, straight nose, big eyes, almost black in this light but Dean can’t help thinking about them as anything other than radiant blue.

There’s the cat-like grace in his posture and movements as he lowers himself to sit on the edge of the stone table.

"You're controlling them," he says, matter-of-factly.

That can’t be true. Dean knows how controlling the lights feels. Right now, he can’t sense them in his hold at all, can’t lead them. He bends his fingers to call the lights back to him, but not one of them will even budge. They prefer to dance around Castiel, instead.

It doesn’t matter, though. Once he focuses all his power on casting the binding spell, the lights will disappear anyway. He needs to stay focused on Castiel, convince him to not run away again as he’s trying to bind him.

“I’m Dean Winchester,” he says. “And I’m—”

“You’re my boy, yes, “ Castiel cuts him off with a smirk.

Dean blinks. Those were not the words he was expecting to hear. Something like ‘stop following me’ felt more like it or ‘which part of I don’t want you around did you not get?’ Not _'my boy'._

“I’m your what now?”

Castiel must be enjoying throwing Dean off because his smirk deepens into a self-satisfied grin.

"You're the boy I chose. My witch."

Warmth flushes over Dean, the pleasant kind. His whole life he’s been dreaming of having someone he’ll call his familiar. He never thought about how it’ll make him someone’s witch.

But he can’t let the happiness take him over fully when there’s still the obvious issue there to be resolved.

"If you chose me then why did you run?"

Castiel’s grin turns into a tight line, clenched jaw. His eyes drop to Dean’s side, Dean’s eyes follow. There, from Dean’s pocket, hangs the end of the silver chain from the ritual. Dean doesn’t even remember when he stuffed it there in among the heat, chaos and stress after Castiel’s escape.

Dean pulls out the chain, lets it rest in his open palm.

“What about it?”

Castiel pushes himself off the table, his teeth bared as if he forgot he’s not a panther right now.

“You’re not putting that on me.”

The ease that was building between them is gone, replaced with heavy tension. If Dean doesn’t do something, Castiel might turn back into his animal form and disappear. For good this time.

But he’s not sure what to do. He looks at the chain and back at Castiel.

“I thought you wanted to bond with me.”

"I want to bond with you,” Castiel answers. “With you, not with the chain."

That’s how the ritual goes: the binding spell, the chain to forge the bond. The chain that Dean’s been preparing for the last six months, carving sigils into the metal and imbuing it with his magic. He poured his heart into it to make sure the bond between him and his familiar would be as strong as can be.

Could the bonding work without it?

Well, it’s gonna have to. Dean’s not gonna chain Castiel against his will.

“Alright,” Dean says, pushing the chain deep into the pocket. He’ll discharge and dispose of it once they’re back at the camp. He’s been studying the workings of the ritual since childhood, and now he’s just dropping it like that. He’s gonna trust Castiel. “So how will that work? Should I—” Dean lifts his palm ready to bring out the magic, the same spell he's tried once tonight.

“No,” Castiel cuts him off. “We'll do it as it was intended, a long time ago. Kneel down.”

Dean nods and does as he’s told. He watches Castiel transform back into a panther. He doesn’t run this time—he moves closer to Dean, his ink-black body becoming one with the darkness as the lights settle down on the table.

Dean closes his eyes and listens to the rustling of leaves under Castiel’s paws. He doesn’t dare move, even as Castiel’s breath brushes Dean’s face. Heaviness falls on Dean’s shoulder—Castiel’s paw. Something even heavier falls on his heart, a profoundness of the moment, like he’s never felt before.

He raises his hand and sinks it in the soft fur on the side of Castiel’s neck. Their foreheads touch. As their slow, steady breathing synchronizes, Dean realizes he’s seen this scene before. A simple sketch in one of Bobby’s oldest books. A witch and a familiar forging the bond without force, without tricks or chains.

Dean always thought familiars were too volatile for that, that they would flee and return to their world if not caught before they get bored.

Not one of the bonding stories he’s heard could prepare him for this. For the sensation surging through his entire body. The power, akin to his own—or is it his own? If so, why is it so much more mighty than it’s ever been? And the ease with which it comes to him is nothing like trying to work a spell. There are no foreign words that come with it, there is no focus on anything other than Castiel’s form, Castiel’s breathing, and the pounding of Dean’s own heart in the silence.

It feels so natural, like it’s always meant to be a part of him. Like maybe it always has been a part of him. He becomes so much more aware of his surroundings, of the soft wind caressing his neck, of the bugs running in the grass and the bats singing in the treetops. Of the crackling fire in the distance and the people dancing around it. Of his own lights spinning around them.

And of Castiel. Most of all, of Castiel.

It doesn’t take more than a minute of stillness between them, but Dean knows exactly when he can open his eyes again, when he can let his hand down and pull away.

They’ve become bonded, and the feeling’s so palpable. As if a part of him shifted and became one with Castiel. A part of Castiel became one with him.

“Wow, that was—”

“Us,” Castiel finishes for him, once again in his human form.

He bows his head to Dean in a little remnant of the tradition Dean used to think was the only way. But it was barely a way at all.

“Awesome,” Dean lets out, still astonished. Still overwhelmed and so, so happy.

Not in his wildest dreams could Dean see this night turn out this way. He hardly even believed he would get a familiar. Let alone one like Castiel, this peculiar, this incredible. One that could unlock Dean’s own power and teach him the old ways of magic. How much more is there that Castiel can teach him? How much can they achieve together?

“We should go,” Castiel says, getting up. “We have your honor to rescue.”

Dean lets out a soft laugh. “You know what, I don’t even care about them.”

It’s a long, long trek back and the forest is so beautiful, so alive. He doesn’t really feel like going back to the rest of the witches just to feast with them. He kind of wants to stay here with Castiel and get to know him better, learn everything there is to know.

But then, there’ll be a lot of time for that later. They got their whole, bonded lives for that. Samhain, after all, is only once a year.

“I’m pretty sure there’s also wine,” Castiel says, as the lights form a path before them. “And food.”

“See—” Dean throws his arm around Castiel’s shoulders as they begin to walk, the gesture familiar like they’ve been doing this forever “—I knew I liked you.”

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Written for [ Writers of Destiel's ](https://writersofdestiel.tumblr.com/) Promptus Exchangarama as a collaboration with deansrightfulangerissue. The prompt was orange and black. We also did another story together with the prompt haunted house. 
> 
> A huge thank you to [ theimportanceofbeingvictoria ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theimportanceofbeingvictoria/pseuds/theimportanceofbeingvictoria) and [ galaxystiel ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/galaxystiel/pseuds/galaxystiel) for all their help!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading <3


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